Steve Moseley

As the sun inevitably begins to set on a life of 74 winters, I have wondered, though certainly not obsessively or anything, whether or not I would recognize it when the time comes for me to limp off into the final and eternal unknown.

Awareness of mortality is beginning to dawn, revealing itself via increasing signs that either now or very soon may prove to be ‘it’ for your muttering scribe.

Why would I openly declare such a dark vision of my future? In truth the red flags are popping up pell-mell as I stumble through these maddening mid-70s.

One warning among many is my increased inclination to consign ‘Jeopardy!’ at 4:30 each and every afternoon to ‘Meh … I could take it or leave it’ status. Right now, our afternoons revolve around Jeopardy … most of the time … but I have noted slippage in the last little while. Do not panic, fair citizens of Gotham. Good Wife Norma and I are not there yet. She never will be, such is her dedication to Ken and the contestants, but I can see it creeping up on me.

Here’s another sign, possibly worse be that possible, that the top of my hourglass is empty. 

Increasingly, I find myself driving 5 mph under the posted speed limit. Though loathe to admit it, truth is I intentionally set the cruise control 5-under. Sometimes even more if you can believe that. My stated rationale is to obtain a little better mileage and gas efficiency. That’s what I say in public. Dig deep and I suspect the real motivation is the majority of outings I have nowhere to go and all day to get there. If it matters not when or even whether you arrive, why hurry? It’s just as sad and simple as that.

This is a sorry confession coming from a dedicated, lifelong 5- or even 10-over the speed limit guy. How’s that for a dang-sure, you-betcha dire warning the end must be near.

Then, the other day an apparently legitimate advertisement came to my attention offering golf visors for men … complete with flowing mane of ultra-masculine manufactured hair built right in. You think I’m pulling your leg, don’t you? Google it up and you’ll see I am right. The fake hair choices run from novelty spike, flair, curly, straight, blond, brown, black, white or gray to endless combinations thereof. Then we have the ‘crowning’ achievement. A true shocker. The Billy Bob man bun must be seen to be believed. You too can be a style sensation on the course or in the clubhouse for the amazing bargain price of $35.01 (One extra penny? Really?) if ordered online. No surprise about the online part, no storefront merchant I know would squander his or her reputation by displaying such abominations as these on the shelf. Well, at Halloween perhaps.

What child of the broomstick horse and coonskin cap 50s should go on living — or even want to — in the face of such a thing?

The coup de grace, the final nail in my soon-to-be-inhabited coffin, was delivered just before Thanksgiving by no less than the venerable United States Postal Service itself.

It came in a vision of 48 pages chock full of Black Friday bargains, each more tantalizing and deserving of my thin Social Security shekels than the last. Best I can tell it came personally and exclusively to me from Mecca itself. Bass Pro Shops.

For all my life, I have pounced on such publications, gobbling them up like a bowl of ice cream, credit card at the ready. But not this year. This year I made obligatory, half-hearted flips from page to page during commercials on the tube. No sparkle in the eyes. No drool. No heavy breathing. Nary a gasp of delight. Not a single treasure among thousands of fishing, hunting, outdoor apparel and boating items merited a second glance. Not one.

Realization of the depth and depravity of my own ambivalence was crushing. If not life ending it is certainly life altering to have arrived at such a sorry state.

Incredibly, if once wasn’t proof enough, the same thing happened again a couple days later. Another 22 pages of incredible outdoor Black Friday bargains, all stuff I would have and should have hyperventilated over, appeared in the mailbox. Again, no reaction. Zero. Zilch. Nada. None.

And so, this is how I have come to know, dear friends, that our time together has grown short. Shucks, I kinda hope so in a way. If not I am surely doomed to be the most galactically bored, and boring, old man on Mother Earth.